Wednesday, February 3, 2010

dead like me

I found a short-lived series that spoke to me, Dead Like Me. It's about an 18-year-old girl whose life ends courtesy of a flaming hot toilet seat racing through the sky at 10,000 light years per hour. Her destiny in death is to become a grim reaper, releasing the souls of the about-to-die so that they can move onto whatever's next for them. In death, as she was portrayed in life, she's a smart, morose, too-honest-for-her-own-good dead girl roaming around among the living, disallowed to do the one thing everybody else gets to: rest in peace.

* * * * *

I think after 10 months of this life, I am finally ready to face the fact that I have never been so deeply unhappy. During this time, I have intentionally isolated myself out of existence, and it's working. When a newfound stranger asks me if I have a family, I say, "Two kids. Everyone else is dead." Friends? "Far. Or dead. But I'm not a very good friend, anyway." Job? "Dead." Dreams? "Dead." Ambitions? "Dead." Trust? "Dead." Granny? "Dead."

Love? "Dead. Dead. Dead."

I'm almost 36. The love of my life betrayed me in a way that has left me so hollow and barren, I am bereft -- bereft of the capacity to feel anything much anymore. I can't will it away, no matter how determined I may be. I can't cry it away because crying for that long makes my eyes puffy and is a horrible waste of tish time -- much like driving and sleeping. I can't fuck it away, no matter how many double digit anonymous lovers I listlessly leave in the middle of the early morn. I can't buy it away; I can't even buy myself dinner.

When someone asks me my name, I lie. I used to be Dana, but I don't feel like me anymore so I give a fake name to go along with the rest of my faked existence. Pretty soon here, my answer to the what's-your-name question will become "what do you want it to be?" at $25 a pop; that is unless I can panhandle enough for a winning 5-play quickpick powerball ticket.

...if I could just get Granny on the line...

Even when I'm not fine, I'm fine. And that is the truth. I am fine. It's my life that fucking sucks. I matter to exactly two people only between the hours of 7-8.45am and 4-8:30pm Tuesday-Friday, and on alternating Mondays - the other half of which were hijacked from me by The Manny. That's about 23 hours of purpose in a 168-hour week. That makes 13.6% of my life meaningful. Not a very promising statistic. The other 86.4% of my life is spent waiting around to become meaningful to exactly two people once again. An even less promising statistic.

* * * * *

Besides Scrams, I don't dump my shit onto anyone besides the interwebs and the occasional whinefest about the lethargy and unfairness of divorce to T. Justice, my deputy attorney. I have three friends in town whom I've loved long time (and they me for some unknown reason) and know me enough to really know me as well as anyone who is not me could ever possibly know me. They hear the words of woe fall from my face as if I'm telling someone else's story and am thusly not emoting. They're all married as happily as I presumed myself to be for about 10 years apiece. And if any of them didn't insist that I see them, I probably wouldn't. I'm sick of talking about the only thing I think about.

"I cant believe he hasn't talked to you since April. I couldn't imagine if (my significant other) and I suddenly stopped speaking like that. No answers at all. It must be so hard."

They know the circumstances of our Empire of Love falling to shit, and my material security chasing it down the toilet. They knew me when I was high. Happy, if I ever was such a thing. And in the midst of my deepest blues turning black, they all remark upon how "myself" I seem to be*. Happy, sharp, funny as ever, looking good ("Divorce must be agreeing with you!!" as if anything or one ever agrees with me). They offer compliments about beauty and strength, and I want to believe them. But there is something about having 83% of your self-perception diminished and besmirched by memories of what was and what simply isn't any longer that keeps me from believing anything I hear anymore. I have pre-empted a thousand unearned compliments, walked among the living, and basically pretend to be someone I may have used to have been. I am still made of self confidence, but self respect? Not so much.

*One of the last things Rebecca said to me (in my hour of need) besides, "don't ever contact me again" was "you are not yourself. i don't want to talk to you until you are yourself again."